the times they are a changin'
by onlywordsnow
Summary: his hand still shakes, her hair curls around his trembling fingertips; follow up to /the silent night will shatter/ - completed
1. author's note

This fic has been around and unfinished for a long time. Because of that, I have decided to restructure this just a tad bit. Please feel free to reread it or just read the new parts.

This is better if you first read The Silent Night Will Shatter. Eventually the restructuring will make sense.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. :)


	2. the times they are a changin'

**okay, so this is "reposted/restructured" mostly because it's been a while since i have updated it. no details have been changed but the final chapter has been added. i have decided to set this up a little differently so if you don't want to reread all of it then just skip ahead to part 14 and stay tuned for the next part. thank you for reading and please review on your thoughts or feelings.**

* * *

_01, thursday morning - 15 days_

His hands still shake, taps rhythms incessantly against surfaces as his fingernails catch on loose threads; he squeezes a fist tight, snaps his wrists in an attempt to get the tick to stop and then flexes his fingers. He thinks that it goes unnoticed despite the fact that she can feel is against her skin, a song that she secretly hopes that he'll sing. She notices the way his fingertips linger at her wrists, feeling for the throb of her pulse beneath his touch.

Her ribs are still broken so she aches when she stretches, bends, or even moves sometimes; she thinks she's suffocating but there's something in Harvey's eyes that makes her tolerant of his tentative care. She gets it a little bit, the way he's always touching her to make sure she's real and alive and breathing, how his eyes follow her every move just to be sure she's okay, that he doesn't sleep at night because he watches her; it's unnatural and foreign to her, but his warm fingers linger on her skin.

It's only been 15 days; _it takes 14 days to make a habit (and 21 days to break one)._

They've fallen into some kind of domestic routine, her moving carelessly around his condo as he watches on in fear. He doesn't go into work. If he does any work at all he does it from home, refuses to leave unless he absolutely has to and shuts the door in anyone's face that objects his decisions. He didn't ask, didn't demand that she come back to his condo, just gave Ray instructions to take them there and she didn't protest.

They dance around each other in the kitchen, hallways, bathroom; he's extra careful not to touch her, afraid to hurt her and hasn't tried to kiss her again. She doesn't say anything because she missed so much in less than a month, woke up and everything was different. She takes the adjustment in strides, reminds herself that at least she can remember everything.

He watches her carefully. If she's in the bathroom for too long for his liking, he knocks on the door to ask her if she's okay; he has worry lines on his face even though he smiles easier. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, leans back against the wall to wait for her to exit the bathroom. He smiles upon seeing her, clad in a white sweater and jeans. His fingers brush over the frabric, slipping beneath her sleeve to feel her wrist.

"You didn't need my help?" He clarifies, "I told you to call if you needed something."

"I'm fine, Harvey," she says, a small smile on her features.

His eyes traces her features, bore into her gaze in an attempt to read her - studying her longer and harder than he normally has to, "are you ready to go then?"

"We should have left sooner," she replies with a sigh.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles, making her expel a breath. He takes a half step towards her to close the distance, covers her mouth with his. It's the first time he kisses her but she doesn't hesitate this time.

It's Thanksgiving and her parents are waiting. Donna doesn't think they're going to get there by noon. It's already eight-thirty.

He pulls back, his forehead brushing over hears as fingers unconsciously tap against her wrist. He sees a smile tug at the corners of her mouth and that's all it takes for him to release a sigh of relief. He feels her hands circle his upper arms just above the elbows and it brings him back to reality.

"We really do need to go," he says, more to himself than her. With reluctance, he steps away. He lets his fingers linger on her wrist before his arm follows his body. "I'll get the bags if you get the door."

"Don't forget your coat," she reminds him.

* * *

_02, thursday afternoon_

He turns the car onto the street that her parents live on, cars lining the street and driveways packed full from families meeting for the holiday. He hits an unavoidable bump in the road and he hears her inhale a deep breath as a reaction. He doesn't shift his gaze to her, just reaches over the center console and places a reassuring hand on her knee.

He isn't expecting it when her fingers slide over his hand and tap against the webs until she can lock their fingers together. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, one for relief or for returned affection - he isn't really sure. After all, he's never really been the kind of guy to care much about anyone or anything like that but here he is, watching her every move and orchestrating every touch between them. His heart might skip a beat when she reaches out and makes contact because it's a reminder that she's still alive.

He pulls into her parents driveway from memory, having only been there a few other times right after when his father died and Donna insisted that he accompany her at the holidays. He went with it because she can be persistent and because he wanted to see her smile and because there wasn't an _other time_ hanging over their heads. He thinks a car is probably in the garage since there's 3 parked in the driveway already; he parks behind the one that he recognizes as her parents' car.

"Are they going to be mad that we're late?" He asks, his hand on the gear shift as he moves the car into park.

He watches her fingers toy with the idea of unbuckling her seatbelt, tapping against the plastic as he offers her a slight smile. She shrugs haphazardly, releasing a silent sigh of relief as she finally pushes the button for the seatbelt. It retracts back into its position and her hand follows it into place. He lifts his hand, glides his fingertips over hers for just a moment before he pulls his hand back to his lap.

The car ride was spent with idle conversation. Every time she asked a question regarding work, he'd shrugged then smiled before changing the subject. He couldn't leave her at home all alone. He thinks his heart would stop beating if he didn't have proof that she was still alive and breathing before his very eyes. So, because of that, he couldn't concern himself with conversation about work because it isn't something that he thinks about much these days.

Her hand lingers near the door handle, "honestly, I think they'll just be glad we're here."

He smiles carefully, getting what she's hinting at. They don't talk about it much. It's more of a subject they have silently agreed not to talk about; he's almost certain that one day that will come back to bite them in the ass.

"Come on, I want to eat while it's still lukewarm," he finally says. He hears her snort, a noise that indicates her amusement, and he can't help the smile that slides over her face. He smiles because of the comfort of being able to hear her, because of the relief he feels. He smiles easier now knowing that he has a privilege that he almost didn't get. He pushes the car door open as she does the same from the other side of the car and he briefly wonders if they are still in sync. "You go inside, I'll get the bags."

"I think I can carry something, Harvey," she replies with a slightly sarcastic tone.

He shakes his head as he shivers, the cold air sneaking in beneath his sleeve at his wrist before he can pull his coat on. He pops the trunk and shoves the keys into his pocket in one, fluid motion; he keeps his hand in his pocket, the shake becoming more pronounced in the cold and his fingertips tracing the seam. They meet in the middle, her hands buried deep into her pockets as she absently taps her foot on the ground.

He shakes his hand one time in his pocket before pulling it out and opening the trunk. He feels her hand on his and he halts, immediately shifting his gaze towards her with furrowed eyebrows. He doesn't ask the question that's on the tip of his tongue, just lets it be implied.

Her fingers slip over the back of his hand as she leans in, her open mouth covering his before he even knows what's happening. He pauses, the feel of her warm tongue lingering on his lip; his hand shakes beneath her fingertips. His lips part as his tongue lightly touches hers, the taste of her coffee making its way over his taste buds.

He wonders what's brought this on but doesn't openly question it since he isn't at all opposed to it happening. Just as quickly as it had started she's pulled back to look him in the eyes and he almost misses her lips on his immediately. He tilts his head, eyes boring into hers in want of explanation and understanding.

She smiles and drops her gaze to the ground, "thank you, Harvey."

"You're welcome," he replies easily, "is that all that was for?"

"No," she says in answer, "because I wanted to."

"Oh, well, if you want to," he counters decidedly. He bats her fingers away and reaches in for all of the bags, dead set against allowing her to carry anything so she doesn't hurt herself more. He thinks that if her kissing him unexpectedly is something that's just going to happen more then he needs to prepare himself. "Is it something that I should expect to happen again?"

"Maybe," she says with a grin.

He nods and reaches up to close the trunk, bags and straps draped over his shoulders. He pushes his fingertips into the small of her back to lead her towards the house. She pushes the door open, shouting a greeting throughout the house and immediately receives various replies. He steps a little closer to her, desperate to feel the radiation of heat off of her when he can't feel her pulse beneath his fingertips.

"We're late," he supplies as Carla approaches with open arms.

She offers him a smile, "it's okay, dear. We didn't eat without you."

Carla's arms slide around Donna as he mutters a mostly ignored _good_, silently hoping that everything will run smoothly. He doesn't want there to be moments of frustration or anger towards him or resentment for him being there. His fingers slip away from Donna as she steps into her mother's embrace and he struggles to hide his disappointment. He decides to distract himself, drops the bags to the floor and shrugs his coat off.

He can still taste her lips lingering on his.

* * *

_03, thursday evening_

His hand is burrowed beneath the table, arm absently stretched out as he seeks out her hand. His index and middle finger tap against her thigh once or twice before she complies, dropping her hand beneath the table. He pushes his fingers over her wrist, small circles tracing her skin like he's trying to force an answer to an unasked question.

Idle chatter takes place around him even though he's mildly silently, save for a random agreement on occasion. He knows that Donna likes to talk with her hands but he's preoccupying one of them now, so that will hinder it. He hasn't been paying much attention to the conversation, not really; he's been too focused on the way that her mouth moves when she speaks and the way her flesh is softer than he remembers just from a few hours before.

Her fingers shift over his hand and he turns his palm over as if on cue, her hand bending at the wrist as she absently presses the pads of her fingers against his. He suddenly becomes aware of his unconscious habit of feeling for her pulse and wonders if she gets it too. He doesn't think he could take going without that reassurance. He will just have to become more discreet.

He pushes his food around his plate, only half paying attention to what he's doing above the table and mostly fighting to keep his eyes open as her fingers trail over his palm. He doesn't realize what's going on until someone says his name. He lightly shakes his head, looking around the table for some kind of inclination of what was asked.

Derek, Donna's brother, clears his throat, "I asked how work was."

"Oh," Harvey says, "yeah, good. It's good. Really good."

"You said good way too many times for it to be believable," Debbie points out.

He swallows, lifts his free hand and rubs at the hair on his jaw line, "yeah, I don't know. I haven't been working much lately."

He hears his own voice, the way it dips and trails off in disinterest like it's a last ditch effort to make the conversation stop. He at least wants the conversation to switch off of him. His eyes flit to Donna, begging for her to save him.

Debbie clears her throat, "so, you're letting your hair grow out, I see."

"Yeah," he agrees with a laugh; his fingers twist the hair, his knuckle sliding along his earlobe.

Donna's fingers leave his completely, lifting and lightly sliding through the hair just behind his ear, "I think it looks good."

Derek quirks his eyebrow as his gaze shifts around the table at the action between Harvey and Donna, "Tucker grew his hair out a few months ago and I just couldn't take it anymore."

"Where is Tucker this year?" Donna asks.

Derek and Tucker have been together for a few years, Harvey can't remember when he first heard about them because he simply couldn't care less. Just as long as there's a smile on Donna's face he'll endure it all. All he can think about right now is that she be okay, she be happy.

Derek laughs, "his sister had a baby last week. He just _had_ to go see her."

Harvey offers Donna a half smile, relieved to have the subject changed. His hand shakes against her thigh, taps out a song that he won't remember; he knows more questions will be coming, but he really just wants it to be a time that they can relax. He wants to forget what it was like to look at her and not know if he'd ever hear her voice again, never see her eyes look back at him. He wants to feel her pulse beneath his fingers, feel her breath on his neck, and have her voice echo in his ear.

He pulls back his hand pushes his seat back, hand going to his plate so that he could take it to the kitchen. He needs to distract himself because he's getting anxious, unable to sit still without being a complete mess. It's the things that he remembers that make him lose his sanity, even though she's beside him and breathing the same air he is. He just forgets in a way that makes him desperate for all of the things he wants.

* * *

_04, friday afternoon_

Her lips touch his and the taste of her mouth lingers on his tongue, his fingertips sliding over her jaw and into her hair in response. She's caught him in hallways, wrapped her hand around his wrist and tugged him to her, too many times for him to count on both hands now. She always leaves a burn behind, his skin aflame everywhere she's touched and his mouth hot.

His hand finds her neck, the thump of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and he can't help releasing a breath against the corner of her mouth.

It lingers for him, his fingertips tapping against her skin. His hair is standing up every which way on his head because he just woke up, the first time he's really been able to sleep in weeks. She didn't wake him, clearly, but when he came downstairs bare footed and dressed in khakis and a sweater, she caught him in the hallway. He's surprised when she slides her fingers through his, thinking that maybe this is naturally unfolding on its own.

Derek is leaving in the morning so Harvey kind of thought she'd be spending a lot of extra time with him, especially considering everything. He's trying hard to give her space, to let her breathe on her own and spend time with her family, but there's a part of him that can barely function when he can't see or feel or hear her. He can't tell if it's dependency or desperation - maybe a mixture of desire and fear.

Debbie is staying a few more days, her kids and husband in Connecticut with his family. It was the year that they switch, but considering what happened she wanted to spend time as just a tight knit family. Harvey is the only exception.

"Morning," he mutters against her lips.

She smirks and tilts her head, "afternoon."

"You let me sleep late," he replies, checking his watch.

"You were finally getting some sleep. You didn't even budge when I got out of bed."

"Well," he starts, thumb dragging over knuckle, "don't do it again."

She rolls her eyes in response. Before she can say anything else, he leans in and captures her lips with his. His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, his mouth pressing harder into hers. Harvey's thumb skims over her jawbone before sliding down her throat and back up. Her hand gets pressed against the wall and he stops himself before he can't anymore.

"Sorry," he says, eyelids slowly lifting. She smiles; he likes the way she tries to keep from smiling but she can't, her bottom lip getting tucked between her teeth. He's pretty sure all of the blood is rushing to his dick and she can feel his growing erection push into her thigh. He lightly shakes his head in protest at the feel of her fingernails sliding through his hair and tracing lines along his scalp. "If you don't stop doing that, we're going to have a bigger problem on our hands."

She absently licks her lips, "yes we are."

He grunts in response, his eyes briefly closing as he shakes his head, "how are you feeling today?"

"Better now," she admits.

He feels her hand squeeze his and he wonders if she means what he thinks she means or if he's making it all up in his head. His eyebrows rise suggestively on his forehead, her fingers brushing his ear. He swallows, _needing_ her to stop.

"You better go spend time with your brother before you can't anymore," he tells her.

With a finger from their entwined hands, she pokes him in the stomach, "you better get some food in you because you're looking skinny."

"Fine," he replies with feigned annoyance; he grins, "I'll be right behind you."

His lips part in anticipation as she closes the space between them, their mouths sliding against each other's' for just a few moments despite his best efforts to twist her arm behind her back and pull her to him. The life that he has (or is beginning to have) is much different than the life he always pictured. He isn't really complaining though because at least he gets to taste her on his lips.

* * *

_05, saturday 4:00am_

Something changes in her somewhere. He watches with a tilted gaze, slight smile tugging upwards on his lips and she finds a certain comfort that he's nearby. He sleeps a little easier, beside her in her childhood bed, his fingers splayed against her stomach and his cheek pressed into the pulse point on her neck.

He wakes up when she moves, the way she shifts beneath his touch. He slowly peels an eye open when he feels her lips on his shoulder, both pleased and surprised at her suddenly ability to kiss him since arriving to her parents' house. Part of him wonders if it's the comfort and ease of being around her family, the other part of him wonders if it's something else.

Her teeth scrape against his skin and he clears his throat, "morning."

"Hey," she replies with a smile. His voice is laden with sleep, but the breath with her reply skates over his skin. She taps her fingers against his back, her nails sharp over his bare skin. His hand slams into the bed, fingers curling into a fist as it vibrates against the mattress. "Get enough sleep?"

He groans, grins as his eyes drift closed and he rolls over onto his back beneath her touch. He likes the way she smiles, how her eyes twinkle even in the darkness. It makes it difficult to not be happy, content - something about not seeing her smile or hear her voice for so long. The way her skin feels against his makes all of the disastrous years' worth it. She straddles his waist, like it's something they've been doing for years.

His chest constricts, remembering how he almost never had her like this.

He shrugs half-heartedly, knowing better than to give her any answer that isn't true. He absently licks his lips. Her fingers trail over his stomach and she winces; he knows that she must have moved the wrong way. He wraps his hand around her wrist to still her movements, to feel her heartbeat - he doesn't know the difference anymore.

He pushes his other hand into her hair, the red tresses curling around his fingertips. He sees her lip tremble, wants to kiss her but he knows that will only cause her more pain unless he lets her take the lead. Instead he pushes his hand up her arm, trails his thumb over her lip. Her mouth parts, teeth clamping around his thumb.

"What's gotten into you?" He asks, voice quiet but still managing to echo around the room.

Her eyebrow quirks as his thumb falls out of her mouth, his hand sliding over her neck. It seems like the only time his hands are even remotely steady is when they are on her, the pads of his fingertips burning on her skin. His lips part as he leans forward and their warm breath mingles between them nanoseconds before he kisses her.

Her tongue slides out and touches his, his hands smoothing over her chest to find the hem of her shirt to slip beneath it. His hands feel cold against her skin, the warmth engulfing them, and he chances it - brushes his fingers over her ribs to see if she can handle him touching her. Her hands slap against his shoulders, fingers grasping tightly even though he isn't even pressing. Her skin is sensitive.

She laughs into his mouth at the way his facial hair tickles her skin. It occurs to him that he should shave but he thinks that part of her finds it charming in its own way, not that he really bothers to look anything beyond decent anyway. It's new, it's different, but it doesn't matter as long as he gets to hear the sound of her voice, laugh, and breath. It's the most important thing to him.

His hands map out routes of a destination to nowhere in particular. His fingers finally splay against her skin, hover just above her waistline. Somewhere between then and now when he wasn't looking, she might have become as accustomed to him as he is to her; maybe one day she'll need him as much as he needs her.

She whispers against the corner of his mouth, her breath trailing over his cheek, and he's so caught up in the way it feels that he misses what she says.

He turns his head, eyebrows furrowed, "are you sure?"

Her fingers slide into his hair at the nape of his neck and his hands vibrate against her skin in return, her fingers tightening on the locks of blonde hair in her grasp and absently tugging. He grins, mouth centimeters from hers as he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her shirts and underwear. He's good, good enough that he pulls the clothing just over her hipbones in one movement and exposes the skin.

His mouth finds her collarbone, tongue sliding over the exposed skin. The air leaves his lungs but he really can't believe that this is going to happen. They've shared the same bed for weeks but there hasn't been much of an exchange - not more than the recent exchange of fleeting kisses. He expels a breath against her skin, her hands rushing to the waistband of his boxers.

His tongue clucks as his erection presses into her leg, his hips jutting upward so that she can tug his boxers downward. He swallows, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against her skin like a bad habit. He drags his mouth against her skin, tongue sweeping over the hollows of her throat before he lifts his eyes to hers. Even in the darkness her eyes shine.

He blinks, digs his fingers into her skin a little harder than he means to but she doesn't correct him and instead pulls her palms across his jaw and guides his mouth back to hers. He _needs_ her, tugs on the material of her clothes until the space between their bodies is only space and not anything else. When he breathes in he can smell her shampoo, it invades his senses - it only makes him need her more.

He grunts as he slides his dick into her center, her teeth immediately sinking into his bottom lip. The warmth of her surrounds him and his lips form a smile, her body flush against his. His hand seeks out her wrist, fingers pressing over her veins as he absently feels for the thump of her pulse. It's a habit that follows him everywhere, a memory that he almost can't forget.

He let's her take the lead after that. He has everything he wants anyway: her pulse beneath his fingertips, her skin against his, her lips pressed against his, the way the smell of her shampoo lingers, how her nose slides against his, _her_. He let's her fingers slide through his hair, tease the ends until it stands up.

His hand slides up her back, fingertips light on her skin and barely skimming over her spine. He feels her shiver beneath his touch, the way she arches her back in a way that she hasn't been able to in months. The shiver carries over to him like a jolt of electricity transferring from her to him, a vibration that echoes throughout. Her breasts press into his chest, his lips pushing her lips apart so he can dip his tongue into her mouth.

She rolls her hips unexpectedly, her fingernails digging into his scalp as the air escapes her. His fingers slide up her arm from her wrist, pushing into her hair. His tongue slides over her lips for the briefest of moments, his mouth retreating and hovering over hers instead. She slides along his length with ease; he attempts to contain himself, swallows to keep a groan down.

His fingers trail to the ends of her hair and quickly drops between them. His fingers push into her clit, making intricate circles as he watches her neck roll on her shoulders. His chin drops lower, his gaze falling on her exposed neck and he can't keep himself from pressing his lips against her throat. The moisture trails over her skin, lingers in speckles that wets his lips.

His palm dips to curve at the small of her back to keep her pressed against him. Her heavy breaths scale the ends of his hair. Her moan touches his ears and he nearly loses it right there.

"Oh god," she mutters; she swallows and her throat shifts beneath his mouth.

He listens for the detail, the way she loses her breath beneath his touch and how her lips part when he kisses her skin. One of her hands releases the grasp on his hair, slides to his jaw and presses her thumb just below the bone to tilt his mouth upward. Her mouth descends on his, but it's the briefest of touches when the pads of his fingers rub against her clit. Her sharp intake of breath slices his cheek, teases the hair at his jaw before her cheek slides over his.

His hand shakes, trembles really, as his resolve crumbles. It's only a matter of time before there's sensory overload, before the combination of warm breath and gentle touches and flesh on flesh make a valuable difference. His fingers slide up to her hip, painting a trail of heat that lingers on her skin.

She whispers his name into his hair and he knows, it's all she has to say and he knows what it means. He pushes his hand up her spine, inhaling sharply through his teeth, before he drags his lips back to hers. He swallows her moan, his thumb digging into her hipbone as he thrusts upward; he feels her muscles spasm around his dick, his tongue touching hers to muffle the sounds as he comes.

His hand shakes against her skin but her laugh echoes in his ears.

* * *

_06, saturday morning_

His feet crunch the snow on the ground below, every step echoing in his ear to fill the silence between him and Derek. Harvey appreciates the silence more nowadays than he ever used to; he doesn't want to explain himself, doesn't care to. When Derek asked him to go on a walk with him in the woods behind their parents' house, Harvey expected there to be chatter.

Fifteen minutes in and it's still remotely silent. The only noises heard are the sounds of the snow or limbs crunching beneath the soles of their shoes or their occasional deep breaths. Harvey keeps his hands deep in his pockets, the cold making his hands vibrate and the anxiety without her presence tripling the shake.

"Be honest with me, Harvey," Derek says, finally out of sight of the house.

Harvey parts his lips in hesitance, "okay."

"Are you okay?" Derek's gaze doesn't linger on Harvey, just long enough to glance and turn his eyes back in front of him.

Harvey shrugs half-heartedly, "I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Your sister's fine, I'm fine," he says. He sees Derek's face out of the corner of his eye, knows that her little brother isn't thoroughly convinced. He doesn't know what he has to do to convince everyone that he's okay - he doesn't have any reason not to be anymore since Donna's okay. He smiles, "do I have to convince you?"

"From what my sister tells me, you're a very convincing man, Harvey, but I'm not an idiot. You look like you went to hell and back," Derek replies.

"I did though, didn't I?" Harvey counters; this is the most anyone has said about that near month where nothing made sense.

Derek shrugs, "regardless, you look like you aren't sleeping."

"I get plenty-"

"You don't," Derek interjects, "look, man, I'm a photographer. I know what people look like when they don't get sleep, when they lose their goddamn minds over worry. You have to relax. You know my sister can read you like a book, and if you don't watch yourself then you're going to make her overwork herself."

"I don't need you to tell me anything about your sister," Harvey says. He snaps his hand his pocket and lets his fingers collide with the inside of his pocket. He expels a breath, "she's fine. She's going to be fine, and as long as she is then I'm fine."

"I've known you for a long time," Derek points out, "I like you, Harvey. I think that she's in good hands and that's why I don't worry about her well-being. But you need to remember who you are."

Harvey releases a shaky breath, "maybe we need to head back."

"Yeah," Derek concedes.

* * *

_07, saturday night_

He can see his breath collide with the night air, chilled and floating away from his mouth in a small cloud. Hers is doing the same not far from his, it just seems to be attracted to the porch light. Her breath echoes off of the ceramic of her mug, the only noise to cut through the silence. He can almost feel it his veins.

His fingertips trail over her forearm, rough pads scratching at her skin with each movement. She shivers beneath his touch, her mouth settling in a thin line; he feels her shift on the bench beside him, angling her body towards his. The porch light surrounds her face and he can't help himself, offering her a small smile as he lifts a shaky hand to brush the hair out of her face.

His fingers tuck a loose strand of auburn behind her ear, his breath lingering between them as he leans forward. His tongue darts over his lips as his thumb sweeps over her cheekbone, his eyes seeking hers for the words that aren't being said. He wraps his other hand around her wrist, the feel of her heartbeat pounding beneath his touch making the fact that his hands are freezing all worth it.

He purses his lips together, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, "you're cold."

"Not that cold," she counters.

"We can go inside, if you want," he says. The day has been long and tiring and confusing and filled with a certain silence that falls between them. He listens to the sound of her breathing, watching her mouth to see if it's still inviting. He checks his watch, "it is getting pretty late."

"Harvey," she starts, tucks her bottom lip into her mouth to busy herself with a worry.

He furrows his eyebrows in response, narrows his gaze, "what? What is it? Donna, just tell me."

"I just don't think I'm ready to go home," she admits.

"Oh," he acknowledges, unintentionally releasing a sigh of relief. He smiles, drops his hands to her thighs in an attempt to steady his hands. There's a shake that vibrates throughout and he wonders if she picks up on it as something other than the idea that it's cold. "Do you mean my home or your home?"

"I mean the city," she explains. He lightly nods his head in acknowledgement, not sure where she's going with her thought process. Her hands tap against his knees before she lifts her hand to his jaw, fingertips pushing the hairs on his face. "It's just nice to have my parents around and you're getting sleep for the first time since I left the hospital."

He tenses at the mention, lifting a hand to stop her there, "if you want to stay, we'll stay, but don't stay for my benefit."

"Harvey," she says with a sigh.

Her fingers push into his hair, tangling with the locks curling at the nape of his neck, "I want to do whatever you want to do."

"Harvey," she says again, tilting her head in response, "What's with you?"

"Nothing," he answers; his eyes drift closed as her thumb slides over his earlobe.

She quirks her eyebrow in response. He's afraid of anything else that might be said, thinks that she knows him well enough to know that it's something else that he can't put into words. He lifts his hands to her face, fingertips rough against her skin as he leans forward to cover her mouth with his.

His index finger presses into her neck, her heart beating beneath his fingertips and vibrating throughout his nervendings. He forgets to move his lips, too focused on counting the beats against his finger. His blood is boiling in his veins, frustrated that everyone keeps reminding him that he almost lost her completely.

He pulls back and offers her a small smile, the ends of her hair curling around the base of his finger. He can only think in clips and phrases, her skin cold and warm at the same time, distracted by the way her lips move and her hair reflects the light. His eyes drop to the way her tongue darts out over her slightly parted lips, the moisture lingering at the corner of her mouth.

He can feel his chest tighten, the air escaping him.

"You're really beautiful," he mutters. Her eyebrows furrow in response; a gentle laugh echoes in the hollows of his throat. He lightly shakes his head, "this surprises you?"

Her fingernails rake through his beard, "you're surprising me."

"I thought you didn't get surprised," he teases. She lightly smacks his cheek. He smiles and presses his forehead against hers. He absently shrugs, "I just like having you around."

"Don't get cynical on me, Specter," she says.

His lips slide into a smile. His hand shakes against her skin and he exhales, willing it to stop before she notices. His eyes narrow in her direction when her hand covers his, her fingers rubbing against his palm. His hand forms a fist, squeezing her fingertips. He just wants the nerves and anxiety to go away; he's becoming more aware of it so he's almost certain that she is.

* * *

_08, sunday afternoon_

He ticks off the moments on his hands, the moments that he hears mentions of those weeks that he sat by her bedside uncertain that she was going to wake up. He counts the ways that they weasel their way into conversations and how the topic seems completely avoidable to him but it isn't avoided. He hates the way that everyone (Carla, Oscar, Debbie, Donna) can talk about it so freely like it isn't a time of heartache and pain.

He scowls but it seemingly goes unnoticed. He thinks partially because he doesn't say anything, absently wets his lips and proceeds to fuse his lips together. His knuckles are white from the way that he squeezes his hand into a tight fist, his nostrils flaring and his jaw tightened.

He's losing his composure at the nonchalant way that they don't really even ask her if she's okay, or if she's happy. He knows by now that there isn't really anything that he can do to stop it, but he doesn't want to hear it anymore. He doesn't think he can handle it.

Donna doesn't really heed the conversation too much, just absently seeks out his hand. His thumb immediately finds the thump in her wrist, his breathing slowly evening out as he counts every beat. His mouth feels dry, his lungs feel empty, and if he hears _one mo-_

He pushes himself to his feet, heels heavy on the floor as the soles of his shoes seemingly bounce with annoyance. He huffs and turns on his heel, feet carrying him towards the front door as his hands shake. The anxiety collides with the annoyance and his knuckles tap against the handle of the screen door before he pushes, letting it slam back on the hinges. He can hear foot steps behind him.

He really can't do this right now.

"Harvey, what's your problem?" Donna asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion; he thinks that maybe the look is tied into concern.

He stops when his feet crunch snow, "I can't do this right now."

"What's going on?" She pries.

He watches her hug herself in the cold, her hands slide up and down her upper arms in an attempt to warm herself. His face softens, begging her not to do this - pleading with her not to make him say more than he means to. Her eyebrow raises on her forehead and he loses all of his resolve.

"I almost lost you, okay?" He says, voice sharp.

She sighs, "Harvey."

"I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I could barely breathe because I didn't want to imagine this fucking life without you. For almost four weeks I kept wondering what the hell was I supposed to do without you and I just couldn't," he trails off, eyes darkening and throat feeling tight. He swallows, drags a hand through his hair. "I don't get how anyone can sit there and talk about it like it was _just_ a close call when all I can remember is that I forgot what it looked like when you smiled, to hear your voice. My life doesn't make sense without you."

"Don't be mad at them-"

"They weren't even there," he interjects roughly, "they didn't see you like I did."

"You wouldn't even leave," she counters evenly. She huffs in annoyance and he pushes the toe of his shoe into the snow, leaving his mark. He snaps his hand at the wrist in an attempt to rid the vibration from the bones in his hand. "And I don't know that because _you_ told me. Everything I know is from someone other than you. Don't hate them, Harvey, please. If there's one thing you can do for me it's get along with my family."

"I get along with them just fine, Donna, but it kills me to remember that I almost," he stops himself, releasing a ragged breath. He lightly shakes his head, blinking _once, twice, three times_ to try to rid the slightly glaze from his vision. He bites his bottom lip, taking a half step towards her as he reaches out in her direction, lets it fall before he bothers to do anything with it. He lifts his eyes to hers, "I cannot breathe without you."

"Harvey, I'm right here," she replies.

"I'm just trying to convince myself that this is real."

Her hands stop on her elbows, "what's it going to take, Harvey? What do you need from me?"

"I just need you," he says softly, absently, almost inaudibly.

"But is that really enough?" She asks. He lifts his foot onto the bottom step of the porch. He taps his fingers against his thigh, the same rhythm beating against the material of his pants. "You don't feel," he watches her lose her words, "without work?"

He lightly shakes his head, stepping all the way onto the step and reaching out to press his hands into her hips. He pushes his hands up her back to pull her to his chest, pressing his lips against her neck and feeling her pulse beneath his mouth. He releases a breath against her skin, letting the smell and warmth of her surround him.

* * *

_09, sunday night_

Desperation clings to him like a baby bird trying to spread its wings and fly for the first time. His sleeves hug his elbows, his eyes tracing her every move as his fingers toy with the hair at the back of his head and he gives her an easy smile. His elbow slides along the table as the dim glow of the kitchen light hugs her frame.

His fingers tap against the wood of the table, his lips immediately forming a grin when his eyes catch hers. He's never been one to busy his hands - never been one for anxiety either, but his nerves keep tingling and his hands keep shaking. Her eyebrow lifts teasingly, mouth forming a mischievious grin that he knows all too well.

He blinks and slides off of the chair, moving around the center island to get where she is. Her fingers slide into his hair expectantly, her lips parting as he leans in; his mouth touches hers, tongue flitting out against her bottom lip. He touches her elbow, fingertips circling her forearm and sliding up to her wrist.

His lips push hers apart, her tongue sliding out to meet his; she tastes like cherries and vanilla, the dessert she'd wanted but he'd refused transferring onto his taste buds. Simultaneously, his left hand slides into her hair, nails sliding over her scalp in a gentle tease. His right hand slides back up her arm, his fingertips gentle on her flesh.

He presses his hips into hers, pinning her between him and the counter behind her - a despteration flowing through his veins. He wants to tell her all of the things that's running through his head, all of the things that she can read in his facial expressions, longs for her to fill in the gaps of him that is missing. He wants a lot of things, aches to be closer to her even though he can feel her skin beneath his fingers, her bones grinding against his, her lips and tongue fused against his so hard that he doesn't know where he ends and she begins.

Somewhere along the way, his dreams became her dreams; his head clouds, his fingers wrapped up in the silkiness of her hair and tangling near the roots. Her hand slides down his chest, her fingertips briefly gripping the neck of his sweater - a gentle chill glides through his veins, a vibration that escapes through his fingertips. Her hand slips beneath the hem of his sweater, tugging on the shirt below in an attempt to pull it from his pants to touch skin.

His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip before his teeth scrape over the corner of her mouth; he warns, "you're starting something."

"And I'm going to finish it," she mutters against his mouth, nails scratching at his stomach.

Her breath is warm on his lips, a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. He shivers beneath her fingers, his lips sliding from her mouth to her jaw. His tongue flits over her skin, light and distant as he presses his mouth hot against her throat. He hears a noise fall out of her mouth, his teeth biting her skin in response.

"Harvey," she mumbles breathily, pleadingly yet warningly.

His tongue swirls against her skin, sucking on her flesh despite his urge to grin. Her nails dig into his skin leaving moon shapes just above the waistband of his pants. His hands slide down her sides, fingertips absently tapping against her ribcage on the trail, and he slides his hands over her hips and lets them trail to her ass.

He pulls up, lifts her with ease and presses her against the edge of the counter as he positions himself between her legs. His teeth grind against the skin of her neck and for a moment he just stops, breathes her in as his nose glides over the hollows of her throat. He takes in a deep breath as she slips her fingertips beneath the waistband of his boxers, the air rushing out of his lungs.

She laughs quietly, his hands slipping beneath her shirt and pressing hot onto her back. His fingertips tap against her spine, his palms flat and vibrating against her warmth. He pushes forward, his chest pressing against hers and his hipbones bouncing against her inner thighs as he tugs her closer.

"Donna," he whispers in her ear, her palm hot against his waistline, "stop teasing."

Her leg hooks around his as she smirks against his neck, her other hand trailing down the length of his frame to meet at the button of his pants. He expels a breath as he rubs his cheek against hers, mouth seeking hers out and covering hers with a quiet growl. She undoes the button of his pants, hands pushing at the belt loops; his pants hit the floor with a thud, the sound of his phone colliding with the floor muffled by the material.

He pushes his hands upward, taking her shirt with the movement. He tosses it aside, forgetting about anything else as his eyes briefly move downward before he presses his lips to hers again. Her tongue meets his with urgency, his hands pushing the hair back from her face and his fingertips sliding into the auburn curls.

Her hands slip beneath his shirt again, her nails raking against his skin and leaving red streaks where she's touched. His thumb slides over her chin, pushing on the bone to tilt her mouth upward. She tugs upward on the hem of his shirt and he reluctantly complies, pulls back for her to pull it off.

His index finger shakes as it trails between her breasts, his nail lightly set against her milky white skin and tracing the wire of her bra. Their breath entwines between them as their mouths hover centimeters apart; his eyes drift closed as he feels her fingers press against his jaw and slide into his hair. He thinks he hears her moan as she hooks her other leg around his, a smirk gracing his face.

His touch is light, skimming over her skin until he reaches the button of her jeans. His hands shake as he unbuttons her pants, his mouth circling over hers. He sucks on her bottom lip, teeth grazing the pout and quickly followed by his tongue covering it for a brief moment.

"Okay?" He asks, all suggestive and implicitive of what he means.

She fixes her gaze on him. He watches her lip dart out over her slightly parted lips. He tugs harder in response, her mouth meeting his. It's almost lazy and easy, the way he tugs her to the edge as she pushes his boxers down to join his pants in a pool on the floor.

He presses the small of her back into the corner as he tugs on her pants, the material seemingly hitting the floor in an instant. The time seems to blur and pass as she pushes her heels into the small of his back. His mouth covers hers, swallowing the noise that escapes her as he pushes into her. He feels her fingers slide into his hair, a shiver skating down his spine.

He pushes his hands against her back, trickles them upwards with a tap of his fingers like he's playing the piano. He's as close as he can possibly get buried deep inside of her but he feels like he isn't close enough. He absently wonders if his heart is beating or if he's getting things mixed up again, if it's really her heartbeat that he feels.

He's forgetting where he ends and she begins.

There's a grunt or a groan or a moan or a hiss, he can't tell which. He's too caught up in pressing his body into hers, lost in the way it feels to have her near him and feel her breathing in his ear or against his skin. He makes notes to memorize every inch of her, to record every breath or every beat, to embed every sound into the depth of his brain.

He forgets, content in just feeling her for moments at a time. Everything feels different with her, a different kind of urgency that he can't recognize as having ever felt before. He feels a desperate need to feel her, to keep feeling her, to not forget what her skin feels like beneath his hands or the way her mouth feels against his. He's done enough, just enough to get what he wants and feel triumphant, but with her it's different because he _needs_.

He swallows a lump forming in his throat, muttering words he thought he'd never say; "I need you."

Her mouth slides over his cheek, her fingers curling in his hair, "I'm right here."

He smiles against her neck, his fingertips lifting and sliding against her throat. He thrusts forward, covering her mouth again to silence any noises that could fall out. Harvey taps his fingers incessantly against her skin, her tongue touching hers as he keeps thrusting and the air leaves his lungs.

His mouth slides against hers, urgency and need as he breathes in deeper and deeper; his hand finds her wrist and he can feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. He circles her hand with his, pressing against it as her fingers slide along his jaw. Her mouth opens slightly, gentle whimpers falling out in a mixture of need and want and desire.

His eyes catch hers, a throb in his dick as his chest tightens. He thrusts harder yet slower and faster at the same time; he doesn't get the mechanics of it, just knows that he feels like he has everything and nothing at the same time. For a brief moment he wonders if it's love, but he knows better than to think his need or desperation could be anything else.

He watches her with careful eyes, the way her eyes squeeze shut as her lips part wider. She exposes more of her neck, his fingers sliding over her flesh in determination to feel her beneath his touch. There's a build up in the pit of his stomach, a certain warmth that takes his breath away as her back arches and his fingertips press into the small of her back. Her muscles spasm around him and for a moment he wonders if she's going to scream, couldn't care less if she does no matter who can hear.

His breath collides with hers, deep breaths escaping him as he comes. Her mouth descends on his, hard but not committed because she can't actually breathe. He laughs when their mouths part, the noise tumbling out without meaning to. His hand disappears into her hair, the other hand securly wrapped around her wrist.

"Oh my god," Debbie nearly screams from the doorway. His gaze snaps up to hers, Debbie's mouth widened in shock as she steps backwards into the hallway. Debbie calls out, "can you not fuck my sister on my parents' kitchen counter?"

"Oh Jesus Christ," Donna mutters against his skin, "you've got to be kidding me."

"Well, little sister, what did you expect?" Debbie counters.

His jaw tenses as he lightly shakes his head. He takes a half step backwards and tugs his pants back on, handing hers to her before he buttons them. He still isn't even sure if he's breathing, just offers Donna a half smile as he bends down to pick his shirt up off of the floor.

"I have to be honest, I didn't bother thinking all that much," Donna counters with a glare in Debbie's direction when she comes into the kitchen.

Debbie smirks at him, "you're oddly silent, Harvey."

"Yeah, well, not much explanation needed, I don't think," he counters with a smirk, pulling his shirt on over his head. His fingers reach out and touch the sleeve of Donna's sweater. He tilts his head in an attempt to motion upstairs. "I think I'm gonna go to bed."

He steps forward, covers her mouth with his and leaves her something to think about. When his foot touches the top step, he hears the idle chatter from the kitchen stop as Debbie asks what's wrong. He smirks when he hears Donna's reply, _yeah, I can't do this_, and her rushed footsteps behind him.

* * *

_10, monday 10:00am_

His phone vibrates on the nightstand, a shrill sound that pierces his eardrums even in his sleep. He keeps his eyes shut, the vibration sliding through his nerves and penetrating at his bones, while he blindly reaches for the device. He feels her warm body pressed against his, her elbow pressing directly into his ribcage as her shoulder leans heavily on his side.

He touches the phone, feels for the button to make the noise stop while it keeps ringing before going to voicemail. He hears a groan elicit from the body beside him and he knows she's awake now. He tucks his hand behind his head, fingernails scratching at his scalp.

"Who was that?" She asks, voice grainy with sleep.

He swallows, clears his throat, "I don't know. Probably the office."

"What did they want?" She asks.

"I don't know," he says with a laugh. His palm flattens out against her hip as he rolls in her direction, guiding her onto her back. She sleepily complies, stretching along the length of his body as she does. He pushes his hand over her bare skin, fingertips tapping along her ribcage. "I haven't spoken to anyone since before we left."

"Do they even know you're here?" She questions, rolling into him.

"Maybe," he answers absently. He feels her chin slide over his chest, her fingertips cold as they press into his stomach. Her bones bump into his, her skin sliding along his as she eases into him like a missing puzzle piece. "I didn't tell them anything but they might know."

"You need to stop avoiding their calls," she tells him; he growls because she knows, hates that she can read him so well.

"And say what?"

She smirks, pushing up to look him in the eye, "that you'd like to keep your job, for starters."

"Donna," he says. He lifts his eyebrow on his forehead pointedly, raising his hand into her hair and letting the curls wrap around his fingers. Her hands press harder into him, making him squirm a little. "I'm not concerned about work right now, okay? I'm fine where I am."

"You have to stop treating me like glass," she replies, hints of a grin forming on her mouth. Her hand slides down his torso and he knows what she's doing, certain that she's only trying to tease him as though just knowing that she lacks clothes isn't enough. Her fingers tap against his thigh, "I'm not going to break, Harvey. I'm not fragile."

"I know," he replies breathlessly. He feels her fingers brush over his dick, the blood rushing to it beneath her touch. He narrows his eyes at her, catching her hand by the wrist before she can tease him anymore. Her pulse vibrates beneath his fingers, "I'm the one who would break without you."

He watches her smirk knowingly before she closes the space between them, her lips bumping into his with a newfound familiarity. His mouth parts in anticipation, lips interlocking with hers. His thumb smooths over the bones that connects her wrist to her hand. He rolls so he's on top of her, her thighs tightening on his hips.

Her hands press into his face, fingertips scratching at the scruff on his face and teasing the hair on his sideburns. Her fingers warm his face, sweeping over the bare skin of his face like she's been strategically looking for the places that facial hair isn't growing. His other hand works its way between them, rubbing at her clit as he slides his middle finger into her folds. He grins against her lips at the feel of her wetness, his tongue colliding with hers at the ridges of her teeth.

His finger only dips into her for a brief moment. As he pushes into her, he entwines both hands with hers. He pushes her hands into the mattress below, his tongue circling around hers. He thinks it's messily natural, a certain overwhelm with need that he gets at just the slightest touches.

Her hands grasp his, her knuckles turning white beneath his as he thrusts his hips and delves deeper into her. Her teeth tug on his bottom lip, her nails digging into the back of his hands. He disentangles his mouth from hers, eyes narrowing on hers in a way that makes him halt his movements to just look at her clearly.

Her hair is splayed out on the pillow behind her head, her hair curling and hugging her face. He drops his forehead to hers, lips parted and hovering over hers but not touching. He feels her ankle bone dig into the back of his calf, sharp yet encouraging.

He thrusts, breath short and desperate with each movement; he releases her hand, drags his fingertips to her wrist and slides his thumb over the veins with pursed lips. He whispers words that he can't control, can't hear, almost certain that he can't even fathom saying. He tries to convince himself that he'll only speak when she isn't listening, when his vulnerability can't be heard.

He just needs her so much closer.

Her bottom lip trembles, encouraging him to press his lips into hers again. It's fleeting in a way that lingers, makes him ache from his chest as she rolls her hips. He thrusts over and over, willing the moan to elicit from her mouth. His lips meet her jaw, tongue flitting out to slide over her skin.

Her noises echo in his ear until he comes, covering her mouth with his to swallow anything else that falls out of her perfectly parted lips. He feels her tighten around him, a gentle relief coursing through him. It takes everything in him to separate himself from her, his mouth lazily dropping wet kisses against her skin.

He catches his breath, shifting his gaze to the vibration on the nightstand again. He shakes his head, reaching over to silence the noise again before sliding his eyes back to her. His fingers splay against her skin, the pads feeling for the thumping of her pulse from her neck.

His mouth taps against hers again, "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," she smiles and lightly shakes her head.

He blinks and absently pushes his fingers into her hair; his mouth hangs open for a moment, "I'd break without you. I feel okay when I'm with you, and when I'm not I feel like I should just cease to exist."

"I know," she replies gently; he watches her swallow, already chastising himself for saying too much, "I don't think I can survive without you."

* * *

_11, monday afternoon_

He doesn't see the things that he would normally see when he looks at her. Normally, when he looks at a woman, he would see the swell of her breasts, how high the hem of her dress is, and whether or not she's clearly asking for it. He knows what women are thinking when they look back at him. They see him as some kind of a trophy for their self-esteem because he _picked_ them out of an entire room of women. And, boy could he pick them.

Sure, when he looks at Donna, he sees those things too, but in a way that lingers - in a way that makes him think not what she can do for him, but what he can for her. He's always taken silent moments to appreciate her in a way that she deserves because she _is_ attractive, has always been attractive in a way that she can be rather distracting. In fact, at the end of some days, he's so incredibly greatful that she's so good at her job because he might otherwise look like a fool when she's so incredibly distracting.

There are many things that he knows. He knows that Donna is _not_ other women. He knows that has a way about her that she catches his attention when other women don't, that he's always felt a dire need to look her in the eye when talking to her, that he's always wanted to listen intently when she speaks. He doesn't know what it is about her, doesn't know why he notices her nimble fingers as she busies her hands or get how he notices every minimal change about her. He silently swears that he doesn't look at her for too long.

There was a switch inside of him that flipped when he was living his days without her. It wasn't like when she got fired and he knew that one day he would see her again, it was bigger than both of them - bigger than anything he could control. The part of him that wanted to die if he never got to look her in the eye again still lives within him, more than the man before - hangs around, makes him desperate for proof of life.

He's always acknowledged her as a woman who deserves more, a woman who deserves everything she could want or need or desire, but he just never thought he could give her anything beyond the material items. He'd give her anything she'd wanted now, anything she asked for he'd find a fucking way to give it to her. All she'd have to do is ask - probably not even that, probably just one look and he'd make it happen.

His eyes glaze over at the very sight of her, the constant reminder of her just not waking up lingering in the back of his head. He swears that if he ever meets the guy who did it, he'll fucking kill him. He'll squeeze his knuckles so tight and throw his fist repeatedly into the guy's face until he can't even see straight; he doesn't give a fuck who sees but he's going to make the guy wish that he were dead just like Harvey had wished he was.

He catches sight of her as she rounds the corner, his mouth tugging upward as though on autopilot; he can't even help the way that just seeing her makes him smile, and that's what makes her different than other women. She completes him in a way that no one else ever could, that no one else ever would, and he thinks that she probably always has. All of the ways she is different isn't in what he could do for her, it's all of the things she does for him just by existing, by being in his life - all of the ways she makes him feel. He's never had to face it because it's always been there, but he almost lost it, almost had to go on feeling like half a person.

It occurs to him that he should probably tell her, should probably admit that he felt like half a person and like he should just give up without her. He'd never realized how his entire body and soul depended on her so much, probably never would have admitted it to himself before now. His mouth is angled slightly, a thin line with the vaguest hints of a smile.

She offers him a steaming cup of coffee and he takes it without hesitation, lets his fingertips tap against hers and linger; he clears his throat, "thank you."

"Thank you? Since when did you start saying thank you?" She teases. Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes to hers, offering her the grin he's practiced for years, but he knows he can't distract her from the way his eyes are watery, the light bouncing off of his iris. He watches her swallow, her neck straining as she does; "Harvey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replies unconvincingly. His lips tighten upward as he sets his mug down on the end table and shifts his gaze back to hers. He reaches out, wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls her in his direction. It's a suggestive pull, a silent plea in only actions rather than demanding. "I just get stuck, in my head. I see you and I can't breathe."

"Harvey, honey," she starts slowly in that warm tone that has always made him forget what the real point of a matter is; he wonders what words were going to fall out of her mouth next because nothing does, she just presses her knee into his as she practically falls into his lap when she sits on the couch beside him.

He releases a heavy sigh, "it's like, I remember how I almost lost you and at the same time I can't help but watch you. I felt like - I feel like half a person at the simple thought of not having you."

He shivers as she touches his face with her fingertips, a hint of relief coursing through him after having said something. He hates revealing any more of himself than he has to but knows that whatever he doesn't say she'll figure out anyway. It would all be a matter of time. His eyes absently trace the edges of her face, his fingers still firmly wrapped around her wrist.

He entwines his fingers with hers and absently lifts their hands to brush a hair out of her face, the hair defiantly curling around his index finger, "I'm here now. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Everything," he breathes in return. He'd expect a joke about how cheesy or cynical he's being, expect the mood to become lightened and less heartfelt, but he thinks she can see it in his eyes. He can see his reflection in hers, darkened and prepared for whatever he has to say and willing to return it tenfold. He blinks, her shoulder sliding against his, a slight smile tugging upward at the corners of his mouth. "It feels right, doesn't it? You and me?"

"It feels perfect," she admits. She shakes her head lightly in an attempt to get the red curls out of her face, his fingertips grazing her jaw. His thumb sweeps over her jawline, tracing the edges and dips in her features. "Waking up with you there every day makes every moment of pain worth enduring."

His fingers slide to her neck, her heartbeat fast and slow at the same time beneath his fingertips, "don't say that. Please don't say things like that. I'm not-"

"But you make it easier," she says, cutting him off before he can say anything that might rip her apart, "it's easier knowing that maybe it isn't all for nothing, that I got you out of it."

"Donna," he counters gently, his watery gaze lifts to hers, "you've always had me. Maybe not in the obvious way that you do now but you have."

She laughs a little, tilting her head, "it's always been a little obvious."

"What?" He asks, mouth hanging open in disbelief, "I have not. Why do you say that?"

"It's your eyes," she says with a smirk, "they don't lie."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters.

* * *

_12, tuesday morning_

There's this thing about him where he doesn't reveal. He doesn't show people how he feels, barely even tells them what he's thinking and makes them read between the lines. His words are like a code that they have to figure out and only on occasion will he confirm that they are right. That's the thing about Donna is that he's always been able to talk to her, tell her his thoughts and know that she won't judge him. She'll only tease him a little bit, but she'll let up faster than most.

He's always felt like things with her weren't like with other people. His dad used to quirk an eyebrow, ask him what the hell is going on between them in a way that felt like he was being challenged rather than interrogated. He'd smirked and told his dad to just ask her out already but Gordon Specter knew - even then he _knew_. He thinks that in part that's why he's always kind of been partial to Donna, because he knew without Harvey ever really having to say anything.

His words catch in his throat, the things he can only say in moderation. He doesn't have a lot to offer, not in the way that he thinks she needs. He isn't used to opening up so much of himself but if there's anyone that gets that slightest bit of him then it's her. He doesn't want to play word games with her, it just seems to be happening.

She doesn't miss a beat though, she catches it without batting an eyelash and just smiles as she calls him on his shit. But she isn't much easier. She hardly reveals anything, just exhibits her power by being able to read him like an open book, and it baffles him. He knows certain things about her, like her health and when her appointments are, but he only knows little bits about her when she lets him.

Always a little bit at a time, never a lot.

So he silently encourages her to tell him more, urging her with his eyes and his hands but never outwardly pleading with her to tell him. He touches her with loose fingertips, the pads of his fingers sliding along her wrist and tracing the path of her veins to the crease in her elbow. She sighs into his shoulder, her eyes still glued shut even though he feels like he's been awake for hours.

It's the first movement he's made since counting the thump of her pulse against his touch, a comforting movement that makes his own heartbeat sync with hers. His fingers smooth up her arm, lets her hair twist around them before he pushes his hand into her red tresses. He absently wonders if he can get her to tell him more, if they'd ever be doing anything other than trying to read each other until the day they die.

There's a certain feeling that invades him, the inability to just purse his lips and ignore the feelings that he has inside - so, he presses his thumb against her jaw and tilts her mouth upward. He presses his mouth to hers, feeling her fingertips flex against his skin, and turns his body into hers. She sighs into his mouth as his chin slides over hers, his tongue briefly tangling with hers.

"What was that for?" She mutters, forehead pressing against his.

He releases an unsteady breath, "I wanted to."

He moves his fingers down her arm, slides it over her hip and slips it up the hem of her shirt and presses his fingers into the small of her back. He shivers when her fingers slide through his hair, hovering over his ear lobe. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Couldn't let me sleep any longer?" She teases, stifling a yawn.

"I think you've slept enough," he muses, "I just couldn't help myself."

"Do you think I don't notice?"

He furrows his eyebrows, "notice what?"

"You. How you're always watching me. How you can't help yourself," she replies with a slight smirk, "I notice that you kiss me a little more often than I've ever seen you kiss anyone else, that your smile is easier - more genuine."

"We don't have to do this," he says teasingly.

"Why not? Don't want your feelings to be spilled onto the table?"

"Because I'd rather tell you all about my feelings when the time is right," he counters with a narrowed gaze. He lifts a shaky hand and slides it through her hair, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. He presses his lips against hers for a brief moment in time. He adds mockingly, "Unless you'd rather tell me how I'm feeling about you."

"It is one of my favorite pastimes," she admits.

"Okay," he whispers in agreement, lips ghosting over hers; he rolls over, pins her beneath him as he fits between her legs like he's an expert at fitting perfectly against her, "I tell you something and you tell me something."

Her fingers dig into his shoulderblades, her body arching into his as though she has no control, "okay, I can maybe do that."

"It scares me when I can't feel your heartbeat," he mutters, avoiding the possibility of the awkwardness by sliding his fingers down the exposed skin of her neck.

She sighs, almost moans sleepily, "I'm scared you're going to resent me if you don't go back to work soon, everything you - _we've_ - worked for lost all because of me."

"I don't want to go back to work without you. I'll miss seeing you, watching you breathe. I'm not even sure that I can function," his words catch in his throat, a grunt falling out. He lightly shakes his head like it will dismiss anything that would come out of his mouth, that already has. His hand skims her breast over her shirt before his fingers press into her hip. "Looking up and not being able to see you might destroy me."

"What if I tell you that I'm not going anywhere? That when you leave work, you'll come home, and I'll be there?" She asks, lips parted and breath beating against his neck.

He releases a slightly annoyed breath, "it isn't the same. I couldn't stand it before, looking up and you not sitting at that desk, what makes you think I could stand it now?"

"Because you have to," she starts; he cuts her off, presses his lips to hers and let's them hover right over hers, "caring makes you weak."

"You make me weak," he mutters against her mouth.

Her fingers slide into his hair, the gaps between her fingers teasing the ends of his hair - her words catch in her throat, come out in a quiet moan as his fingertips skim over her waistline, "Harvey, I can't go back after this."

"What?" He breathes against her mouth, nose sliding over hers.

"You and me," she elaborates, "after being with you, I don't know how to not be with you."

"I just want you," he admits.

She pulls her leg up, her calf sliding against his side and pressing into his hip. She pins his hand between her ribs, his stomach, and her thigh - he wonders when there were three side to this, how she managed to trap his hand there like an expert. Sometimes he forgets all of her skills, how she knows exactly what to do and exactly when to do it, like she's been working him for the last 10 years rather than working _for_ him. He looks at her like he's in awe of her, his hand vibrating against her skin.

She lets her eyes drift closed as she slides her hand around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until their temples press together and their breathing intertwines; "let's not pretend that you believe in forever, Harvey."

His eyebrows furrow in response, his lips forming a thin line. "Well, things change. Everything I used to care about doesn't matter anymore. None of it matters if I can't have you. For weeks I had to imagine what my life would be like without you and I never want to know that feeling again."

She feels his hand shake against her skin, pads of his fingers softer than some of the men who have touched her.

"Harvey," she mutters, swallows a thick film of saliva that has gathered at the base of her throat, "I love you."

She feels his breath cut against her skin, his lips brushing over her skin as he seeks out her jaw. She can feel his pulse beneath her fingers, her newly painted nails standing out as navy blue against flesh, and his heart beat is racing so fast. She's too distracted by his mouth on her jawbone to count the quick beats and only when he releases a hot breath does she allow herself to exhale as well.

"But?" He asks carely.

She can hear the desperation in his tone, the slight pleading in his voice with the one syllable that has fallen from between his lips.

"I just love you and I don't want you to give it all up for me," she admits.

His nose touches hers, and he clears his throat. She can feel the ghost of his lips on hers. "Marry me. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. I don't care. I just want - I need you to marry me."

"Harvey," she whispers in response.

* * *

_13, tuesday 2pm_

Harvey knows Donna. Harvey knows when Donna is avoiding. Harvey knows when Donna doesn't want to give him a direct answer and even more than that he knows when she doesn't want to deliver him with news that she thinks he doesn't want to hear. Harvey is a man, _he is a man_, and he understands that sometimes he's going to be told things that he doesn't want to hear.

He gets that asking her to marry him seemed out of the blue, like he had no reason to ask her, but he knows that it's because his life just doesn't seem the same without her.

He's tried to talk about it so many times, _Donna, about what happened..._ but she just shrugs it off with a smile, her hands on his arms, her mouth reassuring him in one way or another. He's stuck in a perpetual state of uncertainty, but at least he knows that she loves him. _It's just like her,_ Harvey thinks, _to always give him seventy-five percent while he's giving her a quarter_. He thinks this deserves to be talked about, thinks that it's been eating away at him for so long that he's about to burst from the inside out. He just wants to know what exactly the reason is that she won't marry him.

He watches her carefully but from a distance, painfully aware of when her fingers skate over his skin like she wants him to know that she's still present right before she goes back to doing something with her sister or her mother. He can feel the distance between them, can't help but wonder if it's a step in the backwards direction.

He catches her wrist as she walks by, his eyes not having half as much gull as he needs to reach hers, "Donna."

"Harvey, when you say my name like that," she starts, and she releases a sigh that rattles her chest, "I can't."

"You can't what?" He asks, voice straining with desperation.

"I can't say no. I can't think. I can't focus," she admits.

He sighs, almost in relief, "just tell me what you're thinking. Tell me what you want."

"I want you, Harvey," she replies, "I just want you. You're all I've wanted for a very long time. I want you."

"You have me," he tells her, pushing himself to his feet and standing so close to her that he can feel her warmth, "you have every bit of me, okay? I just need to know what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking," she laughs, "I'm thinking that if you don't give me some space then I'm going to say yes. If we ever fall apart, Harvey, we lose each other forever."

"This is us, Donna. We can work through anything."

For a moment, she looks at him as though he is trying to convince her, "I know."

The way her lips curve up into a smile makes him think that he's gotten his answer.

* * *

_14, wednesday 4:15am_

"Good morning," Harvey mutters grumpily as he enters the kitchen. His feet are heavy on the old floor and Donna's mother stands in the kitchen stirring a steaming cup of coffee with the light barely on. He's glad he took the time out to put on a shirt before he came downstairs for a glass of water. His eyes half-lidded, mouth barely opening, "you're up early."

"Honey, I'm an old lady," Carla supplies, "this isn't that early."

"You went to bed after me," he points out. He offers her a tired smile and even Donna's mother knows that he's more sincere when he's half asleep so she doesn't bother to question his intentions. He reaches into the cabinet and grabs a glass, leaning heavily against the counter as he does. "It's impressive, I must say."

"And why are you up so early?" Carla questions.

He shrugs half heartedly, "couldn't sleep."

"What's on your mind, Harvey?"

He likes the way she cuts right to the chase. She reminds him of Donna in that sense and everything is totally clear where the woman who has been in his life for so long gets her personality. Donna is practically the spitting image of her mother and he knows she'd hate to hear that, but in his opinion it isn't even close to being a bad thing.

He shrugs again, not sure just how much he should divulge to her, and fills the glass with water from the refrigerator - "hell if I know."

"You know," she returns.

Her smile is comforting and she has those features that remind him of Donna; he just wants to tell her everything. He takes a long drink of the water, swallows to buy him some time. He sets the glass on the counter and wipes at his mouth.

"Donna really wants me to go back to work because she thinks I'll resent her if I don't," he slowly admits.

"No sense in losing yourself when you don't have to," Carla comments, "listen, Harvey, I think it's clear that you're in love with her but if you think that she isn't in love with you then I would be forced to wonder if you've ben paying attention for the last ten years."

"What makes you say that?" He asks, eyebrow popping up on his forehead.

Carla laughs, getting a piece of pie and transferring it to a plate; she proffers a fork and slides the piece between them, "my daughter is stubborn, hard headed, frustrating beyond belief, but no matter what she has never left you. She's never even thought about leaving you. Even when she lost her job for that short time, all she could talk to us about was what you were going to do without her."

"She was so mad," Harvey supplies with a gentle laugh.

Carla tilts her head and grabs a forkful of pie, "she was the angriest she's been since that time you showed up at her apartment and forced her to tell you how she felt about you."

"Jesus," he mutters, "is there no such thing as a secret between two friends?"

"What's important is that she couldn't even think about anything but you even then. She understands you, Harvey. She hates you sometimes. She wants to murder you violently. But she still loves you at the end of the day. She's never felt like that's something she could tell you or anyone else, but that doesn't make it any less true."

He sighs, swallows the pie and lets his eyes drop to the food, "I asked her to marry me."

"What did she say?"

He shrugs, "she didn't really. She said that she can't say no, but she never said yes."

"Harvey," she replies gently.

"I don't know what to do," he admits, like his name is all it takes for him to spill his inner secrets. He thinks it's because she looks a lot like Donna and he'd willingly confide in her. He sighs and pushes a bite around the plate with his fork as Carla takes a bite. "It's not that I've never thought about what being married to her would be like because I have. But then I almost lost her and I have this need to be with her, like I can't continue to put being with her off. We did it for so long, the not being together thing, and now I'm just afraid that the moment I'm not looking or not with her that she's going to disappear."

"You tell her that?"

He lifts his gaze with her fork, watches her take a bite as he releases a tired breath. He suddenly feels way more tired than he had when he came into the kitchen and he's unable to focus on the world around him. All he can remember is that moment that he almost lost everything in his life that actually mattered.

"I've said something _like_ that," he replies.

"But not that?" She asks. He purses his lips together and says nothing. Just swallows as he twists the fork before taking a bite. "Harvey, if you want to be with her then you have to be more open with her."

"There isn't anyone in the world that I _am_ more open with," he counters gently.

She smiles, "but you've always made her work for it. You trust her. Now show her."

* * *

_15, wednesday 5:47am_

He'd let Carla's words soak in for a while before he dared return to her childhood bedroom. He pushes the door open, carefully listening for the creak of the door that is completely unavoidable despite his best efforts. He doesn't want to wake her up but his attempts are fruitless with the noise the old house elicits. She stirs a little and he holds his breath as he closes the bedroom door behind him.

He doesn't want to wake her, but he knows that he has to if he's going to convince her. He swallows as she peels an eye open and offers him a sleepy smile. She delves further into the bed and she manages to look inviting through her half-lidded eyes.

"Hey," he says, voice thick with sleep.

"Hey," she replies through a tired grin, "where've you been?"

"Uh," he hesitates, "I ran into your mom in the kitchen when I got some water. We've been talking."

"Oh?" She asks. He pushes the door closed all the way and walks to the bed, climbing back in between the sheets to duck in from the cold. She emits more warmth than he'd been expecting, her hand immediately coming into contact with his thigh just below the hem of his boxer briefs. "You didn't think to put on pants?"

He shrugs, "I really didn't think anyone else was up. I needed some water."

"I hope Mom enjoyed the view," Donna teases.

He playfully rolls his eyes, "your mother does remind me of you."

"I could kill you," she replies with a scoff.

"But you won't."

"No one would know," she tries again.

He smirks, "your mom would notice."

Her fingers push into his skin, knee sliding between his thighs, "what kind of unprecidented advice did she give you?"

"She told me to tell you how I feel," he replies. He swallows and turns his head to look her in the eye, her eyes already closing as she leans heavily against him. Her sigh warms his skin, the echo there making a shiver skate down his spine. "She reassured me that just because I go back to work doesn't mean I'm going to lose you. I just fear that if I'm not with you that you'll realize you're better off without me or something."

"Honey," she replies immediately, sharply, but she catches herself, "trust me when I say that I'm not going anywhere."

He releases a heavy breath, "I know that too. I used to tell you so much but when I didn't have you to talk to I nearly lost myself. I forgot how to trust you with all of me, even the parts of me that I was reluctant to share. Everything that we worked for, it's still important, but it isn't worth putting off what I feel for you anymore. I've loved you for a long time but I couldn't allow myself and I know you feel the same way. If you don't want to marry me right now, I understand, but why prolong the inevitable?"

She laughs a little in his ear, in a cute way that makes his eyebrows furrow and a small smile slide across his mouth. "Are you saying that you know we're going to get married?"

He grows suddenly serious; "there's no one else for me, Donna. There never has been."

"What about Scottie? Zoe?"

"I never loved Scottie and I sure as hell never trusted her," he admits, "and Zoe. She reminded me of you in a lot of ways but I never had to fear losing what I had with her because it could never compare to what I have in you. She once told me that I never showed her how I felt about her, but I've never been afraid to show you. I've always showed you without meaning to and you just, you complete me in so many ways."

She purses her lips together, her nose slides along his jaw and mouth lightly touches just below his ear, "I love you."

"I know," he mutters. His feels his fingers vibrate all the way to the tips, the warm feeling only stopping once he presses them into her side against the barely exposed skin. He sucks in a deep breath, steeling himself as he silently attempts to convince himself not to think too much about the things that scare him so much he struggles saying them. His voice catches in his throat and his words are barely audible, "and I love you."

"Ask me again," she challenges.

His eyes narrow as he pulls back to look at her, "what?"

"Ask me again, Harvey."

He clears his throat, "will you marry me?"


End file.
